


A Kind of Magic

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anteverse (Pacific Rim), Confessions, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Magical Tattoos, Mathematics, Mutual Pining, Original Mythology, Road Trips, Saving the World, Uncommon Magics, Wizards, previous Newt/Tendo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-11-29 02:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: Newton Geiszler lives a quiet life as a London academic, spending his days teaching and his evenings in the company of a friendly local bookseller, Mr. Gottlieb. A discovery and a confession send them on a spiraling journey east, gathering friends along the way, racing to stay one step ahead of danger and to find answers. But magic isn't the only thing complicating Newt and Hermann's relationship, and with the end of the world approaching, they'll need more than witchcraft to sort themselves out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 1 year anniversary to PRU, as well as my 1 year anniversary of being a part of PacRim fandom. I've been saying I would release this behemoth for months, and today seems the perfect occasion!
> 
> I was motivated to write this AU after reading Actually_Crowley's wonderful Newmann fic, Supernova, which everyone should check out (psss, Crowley, this is me nudging you to finish that awesome fic!) I also want to hype paster223's "Magic and Progress" series, it's from PR1 era but it's top tier Newmann Magic AU. I hope what I've done here can make the Newmann ship just that bit more magical :)
> 
> This story takes inspiration from a variety of fantasy stories and worlds, including Tamora Pierce's Circle of Magic books, Fullmetal Alchemist, Howl's Moving Castle, and Harry Potter.
> 
> Thanks to gloriavictoria for her AMAZING beta skills. This fic would not be half as good without her.
> 
> Lastly, the fic title comes from the Queen song of the same name.

The bookshop is only lit by two overhead lights, and whatever sunlight manages to eke its way through the thin slivers of windows that are on either side of the heavy oak door. The dim atmosphere gives the shop a cozy feeling, enhanced by the other objects in the shop: the plush, cushioned chairs that sit in various corners of the shop, the thin veneer of dust on the aged books shelved towards the back, and the owner himself: tall and willowy, never without a warm sweater, and always smelling vaguely of tea and chalk.

Newton Geiszler had found the shop years ago, when he began working at the university as an adjunct professor. He'd assigned a title to the students enrolled in his incoming general biology courses, and of course, when he went to find the title among the boxes of half-unpacked books stacked against the walls of his new apartment, he couldn't find it. He’d sworn that he'd packed _A General and Practical Introduction to Marine Biology_ with these books, and not the ones coming by slower ocean transport, but the title did not magically make an appearance. Shopping online proved fruitless: the text was somewhat esoteric and had a low print run, it did not have an e-book version, and of course, it was back-ordered on every website, the next shipping date half a month away.

Newt could've attempted to get through the first two weeks without the book. It wasn't as though he didn’t have it mostly memorized the text anyway. But even he wasn’t so brave as to start his first class at this new job without the course materials, potentially having to ask a student to borrow a copy... maybe when he had tenure, he could pull a move like that. Now when his new bosses had the ability to strand him without money, thousands of miles from his father and uncle, with his whole life in his tiny apartment and no money to transfer it home.

So, two days before the class began, he inquired among the biology department about any booksellers in the area. He assumed there were dozens in a large city like London: the birthplace of so many famous authors, stereotyped as a highly literate, cultured place by most American (and British) media. Whether or not the city had a bookshop on every corner, it didn’t matter. Every person he asked told him that the only bookstore he should be checking out was _Gottlieb's Curiosities_ , a small shop about a mile from the university. The owner, they said, was somewhat curt and unfriendly, but he could always get you the title you needed, no matter how rare, how long out of print, in any language. After listening to half a dozen professors insist that he’d be a fool to go anywhere else, Newt decided to give the shop a shot. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon than wheedling a curmudgeonly bookseller about his selection of titles.

As the tinkling of a tiny bell heralded his entrance, he smelled the mustiness of old books, the muted sweetness of earl grey tea, but most of all, the dusty sharpness of chalk dust. It reminded him of every grade school classroom, of summer days stretched out in his treehouse, drawing pictures on chalkboards of dozens of swimming creatures: friendless, small and unwanted by his peers. He pressed on, letting the door swing shut as he glanced about the shelves looming over him. Books old and new stood tightly stacked in some unknown order, seemingly no two titles the same on any shelf. He didn’t see any other customers, and there was no one behind the counter. He would’ve thought the store was a relic of some long-lost era, except for the laptop and modern cash register sitting on the front counter.

"Hello?" Newt called.

After a beat of silence, Newt heard shoes tapping across wood, then shuffling against carpet as a figure emerged from the door behind the shop counter; a pale, wiry man with a pointed nose and stern features. His chestnut brown hair was cut short and lay flat against his scalp, not ragged but looking as though he hadn't bothered to go to a barber in a while. He wore square-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, with a thin silver chain attached to the ends and looped around his neck. His sweater hung far too heavily on his frame, his body swimming in red wool cut with a golden diamond pattern. He looked far younger than Newt expected, somewhere around his own tender age of thirty-two, and yet he carried himself with the air of someone much older.

"Can I help you?" the man replied. Though the words were polite, the tone sounded as though Newt had interrupted his very busy day of... something. It couldn't be selling books since Newt was the only customer.

Newt's hackles were immediately raised. The man’s tone reminded him of so many other academics he'd encountered who took his youth to mean inexperience, who assumed he had nothing important to contribute. If getting his PhD at 22 was supposed to garner some sort of respect and esteem, Newt had never felt it among the ranks of aged men and women at his last teaching position, squandering eight years trying to prove himself to people who viewed him as an oddity or a nuisance.

"I need a book," Newt said, folding his arms. "Our bookstore is sold out, and I heard you might be able to help."

The bookseller, who Newt was mentally referring to him as Curmudgeonly Gasbag - sighed and opened the laptop on the desk. "And what class are you taking?"

"Teaching, actually," Newt corrected. " _Introduction to Marine Biology_."

The bookseller dipped his head, looking at Newt over the rim of his glasses. "You. Teaching. You must be joking."

"I'm not," Newt snapped, as a flash of anger curled down his spine. Who the hell was this guy to judge him? It felt like he had moved halfway across the ocean, only to find another person to underestimate him. Newt pressed on, refusing to be talked down to: "Been teaching for almost a decade. Sorry to disappoint, not every college professor is a balding white dude in his fifties. Some of us are young enough to still have our hair."

The bookseller sighed again. "Your age was not the reason I assumed you to be a student," he said, pointedly looking up and down Newt's figure. Okay, so maybe a leather jacket, a _Megadeth_ T-shirt and distressed skinny jeans with holes in the knees didn't scream 'academic,' but the guy was still an ass for presuming. Newt wasn't about to change his off-hours style to impress anyone, some stuck up bookseller included.

Newt still needed the book, so he couldn’t unload the full brunt of his brutal sarcasm just yet. "Can you help me or not?"

"Name?" The bookseller asked.

"Newton Geiszler- just call me Newt though."

"I mean the name of the _book_ , Dr. Geiszler."

"Oh." Newt grinned, feeling sheepish. "Uh, it's _A General and Practical Introduction to Marine Biology_."

"Haven't seen that one assigned before," The bookseller said, beginning to type on the laptop. "I'll presume you just misplaced your own copy?"

"I think it's currently halfway across the Atlantic right now," Newt said, leaning his elbows on the counter top. The bookseller glanced at his arms, as if to note their placement, but said nothing and continued typing. "I just moved here, if you couldn't guess by the American accent. I thought I put it with the stuff I had express shipped, but..." Newt shrugged his shoulders. "Can you help me?"

The bookseller stayed silent, continuing to type. When Newt leaned forward a bit into the bookseller’s space, trying to see the laptop screen, he jerked the computer back and glared. Newt put his hands up apologetically; what the hell was this guy's deal?

After another minute, the bookseller nodded and glanced up at Newt. "I can procure a copy for you, Dr. Geiszler. Come back tomorrow around the same time."

"You mean it?" Newt asked, his mouth splitting into a grin. "Dude, you're saving my ass right now, thank you!" If this guy could work some magic and really get him the book by tomorrow, Newt could forgive the haughty personality and cold demeanor. "Do, uh, do I pay you now or...?"

"Tomorrow will be fine," The bookseller said, closing the lid of the laptop. "The shop will be closed for regular browsing, but knock on the door and I'll let you in."

"I'll be here ten am sharp," Newt lied, knowing he was more likely to make it around eleven, but he doubted this guy had plans he would be interrupting; he seemed like a hermit. "Seriously, thank you, uh... Mister Gottlieb, I'm guessing?"

The bookseller seemed to hesitate, as if he meant to correct Newt, but then nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Anything else, Dr. Geiszler?"

"No, I'm good," Newt said, backing towards the door, spirits elevated immensely. He yanked the handle open, feeling the chill September air gust into the shop. "I'll be back tomorrow. And it's Newt, call me Newt!" He dashed out of the shop then, a busy day of purchasing other things for his new apartment ahead.

The next morning, he managed to get himself up early enough to be at the shop door by ten-thirty, too enticed with getting the solution to his problem to sleep in. The thin glass windows left inside when he knocked on the door, but a light appeared within ten seconds, and ten seconds after that, the door opened.

The bookseller looked just the same as yesterday, except having traded the red sweater for a green one. The cane threw Newt off, though. The cane was new, or maybe it wasn't. The bookseller hadn't come out from behind the counter during his visit the day before, and now Newt saw the way he leaned slightly to the side, favored one leg over the other.

Newt's eyes moved from the cane to the bookseller’s face. There was uncertainty written on his brow, as if waiting to see how Newt would react. The expression settled into his features so comfortably, Newt realized how often it must have happened. The bookseller seemed a little young -- despite having the personality of an elderly English professor -- to have a cane, and people were sure to ask questions, pry into personal matters that they wouldn't dare ask an able-bodied person. Newt thought about how an overused arm and an underused leg might make a man look asymmetrical, a little odd, and how baggy clothing would help to hide that. How a high counter would only allow customers to see above the waist. How many people assumed physical ability went along with intellectual ability.

Newt knew he could be too curious for his own good: insensitive, blunt, oblivious to whether things were his business. But he wasn't _that_ oblivious. He'd make fun of you until the end of time for your stupid opinions, terrible politics, and ludicrous scientific theories. Maybe for your shitty taste in music. But never for things out of your control. Never for being who you were. He knew a lot about how it felt to be mocked for that.

So, Newt just smiled and wrapped his arms around himself. "Could you let me in? I should've worn a better jacket."

The only light on in the shop was the antique-looking table lamp next to the cash register. The door was open behind the counter, and Newt saw a staircase leading upwards. There was a second floor to the building; did the bookseller live above the shop? Newt abandoned this line of thought upon spotting the book on top of the counter: a copy of _A General and Practical Introduction to Marine Biology_ looking pristine, as if it had just been printed off mere hours before.

"Holy crap, dude!" Newt said, opening the cover and flipping through the pages. "How did you outdo Amazon and every other online bookstore I tried?"

"Secrets of the trade, Dr. Geislzer," The bookseller said, rounding the counter. "I have my ways. Will that be cash or charge?"

The book was expensive, but not nearly as high as what Newt had prepared to pay for an overnight shipping order. After Newt paid, the bookseller went to the trouble of wrapping the book in brown paper, as if it were a precious glass bauble or porcelain bowl.

"I don't carry plastic bags, and your travel bag has seen better days," the bookseller explained, motioning to the roughed-up side bag with the strap draped over Newt's chest. It was made of a heavy green fabric, and every patch he'd gotten from every single rock concert he'd been to since he was 15 was sewn to the flaps and back of it. He would stop using this bag when he was either dead or it disintegrated. He'd already replaced the strap twice.

"This bag is a one-of-a-kind time capsule of my life," Newt insisted. "I just cleaned it out right before I moved. Nothing sticky on the inside, promise. Besides, the book's gonna get roughed up eventually."

"Not leaving my shop, it's not," the bookseller replied, holding the book out to Newt. "There. Delivered, as promised."

"You're the best, man," Newt said, tucking the book into his bag. He’d cover it in coffee stains and chip grease over time, but for now, it was a pristine miracle wrapped like a present. "I'm still shocked you managed to get it to me. No offense, but this shop doesn't scream of someone with powerful connections in the printing industry."

"I've yet to fail a customer, Dr. Geiszler," the bookseller said, stepping back out from behind the counter. "I'm your best option if you're in a rush, or in need of something rare. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. They're either lying or very foolish."

Newt smiled again. He liked this guy’s confidence. The bookseller was clearly full of himself, but he also clearly took pride in his work and wasn't about to let anyone tell him how to do his job. Newt could admire that.

"I'll keep it in mind," Newt replied, glancing around the shop. "You really do have a lot of old books. Is that your specialty? Antiques, first editions, signed copies? Rare stuff?"

"You could say that," the bookseller said. glancing back towards the open door leading upstairs. "Is there anything else you're in need of today? I've some work to attend to."

"Nah, man, I won't keep you," Newt said, shaking his head. "Thanks again. You really helped me out. It's been stressful enough moving my whole life to a foreign country: not knowing anybody, trying to figure out all the cultural differences, wondering if I've made a giant mistake."

"I can relate," the bookseller said in a surprising display of self-disclosure. "I was born and raised in Berlin. We immigrated here when I was in primary school, and the culture shock hit me hard."

"You're German?" Newt said, clinging to the bit of connection to home this man held. " _Sprechen sie Deutsch?_ "

The bookseller's eyes went wide. "Yes, of course. You?"

Newt nodded. "My whole family is German. Dad moved me to the States when I was young. He and my uncle spoke the language around the house a lot. I'm a little rusty but I'm passable. Science is where my talents are, not language."

"Well, immersion is important to the retention of fluency in a language," the bookseller said, as if Newt wasn't already aware. Newt would later realize that the bookseller assumed everyone around him was far less intelligent, mostly because they usually were. It wasn't arrogance, just inevitability. "So, I suppose… if you come back, you’re welcome to try your skills out on me. It would be nice to speak the mother tongue with someone who isn't half garbled by a poor phone connection."

Newt laughed. "Yeah, I bet. Okay. Another time then, Mr. Gottlieb."

"Hermann. My name," he said when Newt gave him a confused look. "It's Hermann. It's only fair for you to know, since you've already given me yours. Though I still prefer being referred to by my surname-"

"Hermann, man that's like the most German name _ever_ ," Newt said, as if his name was any less ridiculous. "Okay, cool. See you later, Hermann."

~

After that first meeting, Newt dove headfirst into the stress and terror of a new academic job: teaching his classes, setting up the lab he'd been promised and hiring techs to assist, unpacking his apartment and finding that the space seemed much larger with most of his things still on their way across the ocean. Nearly a month passed before Newt came up for air long enough to remember the grouchy little bookseller not far down the road; the only person here he knew in London apart from his academic peers. He liked to keep his pool of friends outside of work, and overseas calls to his dad, uncle and Tendo didn't make the apartment any less lonely.

Maybe he should get a dog. For now, he figured Hermann would at least make for an interesting afternoon.

When Newt entered the shop a second time, Hermann was chatting with a young woman across the shop counter who wore a sweatshirt with Newt’s university name emblazoned across the front. Hermann glanced over when the bell above the door tinkled, spotted Newt, gave a wave, and said, "I'll assist you in a moment, Dr. Geiszler."

"Yeah, uh, take your time," Newt said, realizing he didn't really have a reason for coming by. Was wanting to speak German a good enough excuse?

He ducked back through the shelves as Hermann continued to chat with the woman, trying to think of what to say when Hermann approached him. The obvious answer nearly slapped him in the face, so that when Hermann came to find him, Newt was already staking out his territory.

"You found the biology section, then," Hermann stated, coming to stand beside him. Newt was flipping through an old photo book, marveling at the detailed pictures with a distinctly 70s sheen on the camera film. "That was from a limited run produced by a rather famous photographer for _National Geographic_ , I believe. Only a few of those left in the wild."

Newt flipped back to read the author name, and nearly dropped the book in surprise. "Wait, Yasmin Oliveira? You’re kidding me; she was the best photographer of Amazonian life, hands down. But I've never seen any of these photos."

"As I said, it was a limited run," Hermann responded. He reached out to flip through the pages, turning to a gorgeous shot of the camera pointing up at the canopy, capturing a moment of beauty as chittering monkeys lept from one tree to another, hanging vines casting shadows across the leaves below, flowers speckled with morning dew, and other small creatures peeking out of crevices in the tree trunks. "I believe the introductory pages explain that she wanted the volume’s rarity to mimic the increasingly rare magnificence of a biome being destroyed by human greed. So, as the rainforest disappears, so too would this book become harder and harder to find."

"You really know your shit," Newt replied, gently closing the book and holding it underneath with two hands to avoid damaging the spine. "You read a lot of biology?"

"Most of the sciences interest me in some way, though I prefer mathematics," Hermann explained. "If you find physics and the theoretical underpinnings of the universe a bit too dry of a topic, I'd avoid the leftmost shelves. Are you interested in the book?" he asks, motioning to Newt's arms.

"Man, I'd love to have it, but I'm more interested in eating and paying rent this month," Newt joked, lifting the book to slide back in the hole it had come from. "I can't imagine something that rare is cheap."

Hermann caught the edge of the book before Newt could slide it back onto the shelf. Newt glanced over, finding Hermann's expression thoughtful, assessing. His grip was firm but not demanding as he drew the book away from Newt and held it gently against his chest.

"Don't presume to know my pricing scales, Dr. Geiszler. Assuming things about my shop will get you in a great deal of trouble and misery if you’re not careful," Hermann chided, turning around. "Come up to the front, and we'll see what we can do for you. Quickly now."

Newt opened his mouth, realized he was too surprised to come up with a response, and closed his mouth, scrambling after Hermann.

When Newt reached the front counter, Hermann placed the book down beside himself and began typing away on his laptop. "Let's see what I purchased this for- ah. Alright then. So, to get some worthwhile profit out of it..." He looked off to the left, and Newt could practically see the numbers whizzing past his eyeballs, all the calculations being run in his mind. "Yes, alright," Hermann mumbled, ripping a bit of receipt paper off the end of the roll on the cash register. He scribbled on it, and then held the paper out to Newt. "Is this affordable to you?"

Newt took the paper and read off the price, and let out a surprised exhale of air, his lips parting slightly, though thankfully not wide like he was some slack-jawed idiot out of an old cartoon. "Dude, this cannot be the price. This is, like, criminally low!" He looked up to Hermann, who was resting his weight on his good leg, arms folded, seemingly unperturbed by Newt's words. "You're serious?" Newt asked. "Like, no bullshit?"

"My prices are my prices, Dr. Geiszler," Hermann said, shrugging his shoulders. "Will you be purchasing the book, then?"

"Shit, yeah, man," Newt said, pulling out his wallet. "I'm not dumb enough to pass up an amazing deal when I see one."

Hermann insisted on wrapping the book up again, even after Newt showed him the inside of the bag was clean -- had been cleaned out right before Newt came to the store, but still, no, Hermann would wrap it for the journey home. The tape dispenser was on a little black tray, and when Hermann placed it on the counter, Newt saw half a dozen pieces of chalk lying on it, streaking the plastic with white dust.

"I was wondering about that," Newt said, motioning to the chalk as Hermann cut a piece of tape. "Smelled a lot like chalk the first time I came in here. Do you, like, do those outdoor display stands to advertise since you’ve got no window front? I didn't see any chalkboards in here."

"They're upstairs, in my apartment," Hermann explained, though it didn't make sense why he'd keep any chalk down in the shop. He didn't seem to want to explain any further, staying quiet as he finished wrapping the book up and held it out to Newt.

Newt tucked the book into his side bag and adjusted it on his shoulder to account for the added weight. "I don't get it, man," he said, stepping aside to allow the young woman who Hermann was speaking to when Newt first came in to approach and set two books down. The topmost title read _Wicca and Witchcraft Through the Ages_. Newt continued: "You can't be making enough of a profit to stay open if you're charging prices like these."

"I deal in all many sorts of texts, Dr. Geiszler," Hermann replied, his mouth arching into the first actual smile Newt had ever seen him get when he turned to face the young woman. The corners of his mouth crinkled up, as did the corners of his eyes, and the tension in his brow slackened. It made him look half a decade younger.

_God damn_ , Newt thought. _What a smile that is._ He so badly wanted to find a way to have that smile directed towards himself.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Theodora?" Hermann asked the young woman, who nodded, giving Newt a quick glance before pulling her wallet from her purse and thumbing through the crumpled bills inside.

"What kinds of texts?" Newt said, wanting to press further. He knew he was overstepping, being rude, but once Newt caught the sense of an interesting thread to follow, he would be hard pressed to let it go.

Hermann glanced at him again and seeing that Newt wasn't going to leave without a further explanation, he sighed as he took the cash Theodora held out to him. "As you surmised, I deal in antiques and rare publications. There are plenty of people willing to pay well for what I can get them, and they pay well enough that I can keep prices low for the rest of my customers."

"This isn't just low, this is charity," Newt replied, folding his arms.

Hermann had just sold him what basically amounted to a nearly priceless work of art for a fraction of what it was worth. He was almost insulted by the implication, and his overworked mind, exhausted by the stress of the first month, took it in bad faith, as if Hermann was deigning to provide Newt with his benevolent, self-satisfied 'kindness.' He might have been a poor college professor, but he had some goddamned dignity, for god's sake.

"I'm not a charity case," Newt grumbled.

"I never said you were,” Hermann replied, looking confused, and, with the way he quickly focused his eyes on the counter again, maybe a little hurt. Newt regretted his attitude immediately. It was just, Newt's family had never been well off, and he'd worked his ass off to get where he was now. So, any hint that someone believed he needed welfare or charity tended to rub him the wrong way.

Newt sighed, mentally kicking himself for yet again fucking up a chance at friendship. He scrambled for a way to fix it.

"You, uh, you like tea, right?" Newt asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Hermann handed Theodora her books without wrapping them -- apparently, she fell into a category of trust that Newt did not yet -- and nodded as she left the shop. "I do, as anyone in this infernally frigid country soon learns is a requirement of living here."

Newt snorted. "Yeah, okay. Be right back."

He left before Hermann could question his motives, but returned within twenty minutes, two steaming cups warming the palms of his hands, contrasting the cold, whipping October wind that he’d braved to fetch them.

"The guy in the cafe down the street said this was your favorite," Newt explained as he handed a cup over to Hermann. "I figured, with it being the closest one to this place, you probably frequent it."

"I do, when I'm too lazy to make my own," Hermann said, staring down at the tea, like it’s appearance didn’t make sense. "I... why did you-"

"Well..." Newt interrupted, fumbling with his words for a moment, "I can't pay you what this book is really worth, but I can at least buy you some tea."

"…Thank you, Dr. Geiszler," Hermann finally said after a brief silence. He took a sip of the tea, sighing contentedly after doing so. "I appreciate the gesture."

"It's Newt. Call me Newt," Newt said, opening the shop door. "See you later, Hermann."

~

This had all occurred 3 years past. Newt had settled into life in this strange new city, with new people to work with - or usually, in his case, work _around -_ a new laboratory in which to perform his experiments, fresh-faced interns to corral each semester, and occasional trips back to America to see his family, supplemented with weekly web calls. He never did get a dog, but he was rarely home, too busy with academic life. Otherwise, when not buried in student essays or boxes of pipettes, he often found himself returning to that cozy little book shop.

Hermann didn't seem to mind if people came in to browse but not buy. He had a few regular customers, and newcomers quickly learned to accept the bookseller's abrasive attitude, or they never came back. After a few months of regular visits, Hermann no longer followed Newt through the shelves, asking if he needed assistance. Instead, Newt was usually given a head nod or a wave and left to his own devices until he chose to engage with Hermann.

Newt quickly came to understand that this place, more than a shop, was a respite for many of the regulars. Theodora, for instance, was struggling with a home that didn't accept her loud tattoos, bright purple hair, and preference for women (she was also really fucking into Wicca). Nathan, on the other hand, had lost his wife a number of years back, and had few remaining friends alive. Coming into this bookshop -- a world that felt frozen in the 20th century -- gave him peace, and other people to regularly interact with. Julianne was working on an art history PhD, and tended to use the shop as a library, standing in front of the shelf of artist portfolios for hours at a time. Kevin was on his feet for twelve hours a day, scrubbing dishes at the restaurant a block down the street, and Hermann's cozy chairs and regularly refilled tea kettle - which had worn a dark brown, circular stain into the shop counter's wooden top - were a perfect place to take his lunch break.

As for Newt, well, he really didn't have a good reason, if he was honest. His coworkers and lab techs were friendly enough that they went out to the pub a few times a month. He didn't need a supportive community, like Theodora. He wasn't looking for a taste of the past, like Nathan. The biology books Hermann usually carried on the shelves were far out of date, both printing and information-wise, so were useless to him, unlike the books Julianne could use. There were bookshops closer to his house, and he didn't need this place to rest on a lunch break, like Kevin.

Nevertheless, he kept coming back. His opinion of Hermann had switched from interesting to fascinating. The man was utterly brilliant, with a whip-smart mind that could calculate numbers faster than any computer, or at least that's how it seemed. He had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the books in his shop, and while he dealt in older titles, there was still a display of new and noteworthy authors at the front for the curious minded shopper who might take a chance on a shiny, glossed cover and then later discover something older but just as exciting on the shelves.

Hermann was an odd guy, there was no getting around it. His hands were often covered in chalk dust, broken pieces of it littered around the shop. Newt went with the theory that he would accidentally bring it down into the shop and just never take it back up. He wondered if Hermann was conducting some sorts of physics experiments in his apartment, because sometimes when he entered the shop, he felt a thrum, an electric crackle down his spine, and his hairs stood on their ends. This would only happen when no one else was in the shop, and Hermann would come down from his apartment a few moments later to greet him.

The strangest of all was that sometimes, someone would come into the shop, go immediately to the counter, and without any words, Hermann would pull a wrapped book from beneath the counter and hand it off. A sum of money would be exchanged, enough that Newt would've thought it was a drug deal except for knowing how Hermann kept the shop running. It was always a different person, and they would leave as quickly as they came. One time, Newt queried Hermann after a buyer had left about what had been sold. Hermann had given him a hard look, then, and said, " _None_ of your business, Dr. Geiszler." The force and firmness of the warning made Newt never ask him again.

Maybe if he had, they would have been prepared for what was ahead.

~

 

_present day_

 

Newt throws open the shop door, grinning brightly at the man behind the counter. "Hermann, Herms, man, I brought you tea! 

Hermann sighs and closes the book he was perusing, stowing it under the counter. "Must you continue with that insufferable nickname, Newton? You get far too much pleasure out of it."

"I'll call you what you want when you call me what I want," Newt says, sticking out his tongue, because he has the maturity level of a five-year-old and this is how he shows affection. "Here, I got you this." He places a cup -- the largest size of tea the nearby cafe sells -- on the counter top, folding his hands and watching as Hermann squints at the cup suspiciously, as if he's expected Newt has poisoned it.

"What do you want this time?" Hermann asks, immediately making his mark. "You only buy the large when you need to apologize or need a favor."

"Hey, I'm... totally not that transparent," Newt finishes lamely. "Okay. Fine. It's not a favor, or an apology. More of a personal question."

Hermann frowns, picking up the cup. He's never refused a cup Newt's brought him, and it doesn't seem he's starting now. "How personal?"

"Personal enough that I'm bribing you beforehand, so you don't get mad when I ask it."

"Alright. Ask it, then. I can't promise I'll answer."

Newt fidgets for a minute while Hermann sips the tea, trying to figure out how to put his thoughts to words as delicately as possible. He's silent for so long, that Hermann reaches forward, nudging his elbow, a look of concern on his face.

Oh, fuck it.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a PhD?" Newt asks. "Or about Cambridge?"

Hermann's skin pales to the color of fine paper, muted grey. He swallows the tea in his mouth, placing the cup on the counter. "How- how do you even _know_ -"

"Oh, come on, Hermann," Newt says, leaning on his hands against the counter. "This is the twenty-first century. Google exists. A guy's gonna eventually get curious about how some mathematical genius ends up running a bookstore slash refuge for wayward souls."

"So, you- you _cyberstalked_ me?" Hermann says, the pitch of his voice rising.

Newt frowns. "That's a little disingenuous, don't you think, _Doctor_ Gottlieb? I typed your name into the search bar and got a shit load of articles back about your career. And your sudden, mysterious departure from academia five years ago. None of the articles said what happened, only that you'd resigned your position. I mean, what the hell, man? You weren't gonna mention this, like, _ever?_ "

A little color returns to Hermann's face. "That's all you know, then? That I left academia?"

"Like I said, nobody seemed to know why," Newt acknowledges.  "So, I thought I'd come to the source and see if I could get a genuine answer. What happened? I read your papers, I read your fucking _dissertation_ , for god's sake. You're brilliant, Herms. You should be chairing the department of that school while your latest book is used in every physics classroom on the Continent. So how the hell did you end up here? Doing this?"

Hermann looks down. He doesn't seem to be staring at anything in particular; it's more as if he's trying to decide the right words to say, and whether he's going to answer Newt truthfully. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, drawing out the long seconds, until Newt is squirming in his shoes.

"Come on, dude, you can tell me," Newt says, when he can't stand it anymore. He tries to lighten the mood, which has suddenly become so uncomfortably heavy. "I promise I'll only tease you a little bit. I bought you a large, you basically _have_ to tell me now."

He knows it's the wrong thing to have said. Hermann looked so close to opening up, and suddenly it's like a wall comes down, coldness creeping over his features. Hermann pushes the cup of tea towards Newt and grabs his cane from the hook where it hangs behind the counter.

"If I wanted you to know, _Doctor Geiszler_ , I would have told you," Hermann says, voice crackling with venom. He steps backwards, gripping the door handle behind him. "Now, I have things to attend to. Keep the tea. You can see yourself out."

"Hermann, wait-" Newt says, but Hermann has already gone through the door, shut firmly behind him, lock clicked into place.

Newt looks down at the cup of tea, the rim of the plastic stained beige with cooling liquid. He doesn't move for a long moment, too shocked to take any action. Why had Hermann been so angry? He'd left the fucking tea, what the _hell_? Newt has never seen him act like this. What could be so wrong, what could scare Hermann so much – and it was fear, Newt had seen it in his eyes before he'd shut the door – that he'd refuse to tell Newt? Is he afraid of what Newt would think of him?

Newt takes a chance, walking around the counter and rapping on the door.

"Herms?" Newt calls. "Buddy? You gonna leave the shop unattended? You know there have been break ins around the area in the last couple weeks. Just saying, that's not the best business call."

Silence.

Newt sighs, resting his forehead against the door. "Yeah. Okay. I guess I'll go. I'm leaving the tea, though. You know I only drink coffee, and you'd better not waste it. God knows why I bother spending my limited paycheck buying you caffeine. Guess I'll see you later."

He leaves only after another minute of silence. He doesn't have time to stick around anyway, he's got dissections to run in the lab today.

Behind the door, Hermann leans against the wood, a hand pressed to his face, trying to control his breathing. On the ground below him is a perfect circle, drawn in chalk.


	2. Chapter 2

Newt tosses his coffee cup in the trashcan just inside the door to his laboratory. As he enters, he finds the lights are already on, and his assistant Aubrey is setting up a sterile dissection environment. They've gotten hold of _raijinicus otachius_ , one of the rarest species of fish that swims high enough to occasionally be snagged by a fisherman's net. One of Newt's contacts had let him know about the catch, and he'd somehow cajoled the university into letting him buy it, on the condition that after using it as a fantastic demonstration for his students, he would preserve it so that later classes could study its anatomy.

"How's it look?" Newt asks as he carefully rolls his sleeves up and starts to scrub down in the lab sink. "These bad boys are usually half shredded in the nets by the time they get pulled out of the water."

"It's pretty gorgeous, Doctor G," Aubrey says, snapping her blue gloves off and tossing them in the trash. "All set for you to work on. You're just looking inside for now, right?"

"Correct," Newt says. He loops a lab apron over his head; he normally wouldn't give a shit - the evidence being dozens of chemical-stained garments in his closet - but you don't take chances with a classic _Ramones_ t-shirt. Plus, the light blue button-down he wears over it is his most clean professional shirt, and he's trying not to hit the laundromat until Saturday. He could take the button-down off, but it gets cold in the lab. It gets cold everywhere in this fucking country. His heating bill goes through the roof in the winter.

"You need any more help?" Aubrey asks as she steps past him, switching positions so she can use the sink to wash up. "I was gonna finish up the paperwork for last week's incident report, but I can stay if you want."

"No, go ahead. I hired you so I wouldn't have to do all that boring busywork.” Aubrey gives him a withering look, and Newt scrambles for a save. “Uh, and of course, because you're an amazing doctoral student who's gonna get a lab of her own as soon as she graduates?"

"I'm not your secretary, Doctor G," she reminds him. "I'm here to learn about the biology of marine life, not how to forge your signature."

He holds up his hands, nodding. "I know, I know. I’m sorry. Come back when the paperwork is done, Ms. Magnus, yeah? I'll give you a personal tour of this baby's anatomy and you can give me your opinion on how to proceed with the lesson. 

She seems satisfied with this, leaving him be as he snaps on a pair of disposable gloves. He puts on his safety goggles and face mask, because the head of the biology department nearly took his head off the last time she caught him working without them. He's not looking to repeat the experience any time soon. Lastly, he presses the record button on the voice recorder; it will capture his voice as he makes observations.

He whistles when he pulls the plastic tarp off the deceased sea creature. It's as long as his arm and wide as his head, and its eyes are comically large, strange and alien in size; it needs to absorb and refract as much light as possible in its usual territory of the deeper, darker layers of the sea. The creature has razor sharp teeth, and tentacles sprouting from its head that might help it echolocate. At least, that's the running theory; no sample has ever been pulled from the sea alive. The fisherman who caught this sample claimed it was still squirming when the net came up, but by the time he reached shore, it was dead. It makes sense; a creature used to living at the pressures of the depths would basically get the bends if brought to the surface too fast and left in that sort of hostile environment.

"Creature appears healthy at time of death, with no outward sign of disease or damage," Newt says, picking up the scalpel. "Beginning dissection."

The scalpel slides easily through the thin scales, the musculature beneath butterflying open like the pages of a book. He uses a surgeon's finesse to slowly slice through the muscles, centimeter by centimeter, not wanting to damage any of the organs inside. Another slice reveals the translucent white muscle of a lung, and the edge of an egg sac towards the tail.

"Okay, let’s see, this baby looks like a female of the species," Newt says, twisting the head slightly. "Gills are pretty large. I’m gonna chalk that up to the need for more oxygen to survive the depths."

He swivels the scalpel beneath the lungs, intending to cut a bit farther down before stopping. The point of this preliminary dissection is to reveal enough organs to explain the anatomy to his class, and not for him to practice his carving skills mid-lecture. After a moment of thought, he aims for where the stomach should be; the contents of which will likely prove fascinating.

When he uncovers the opaque, pink skin of the stomach, it bulges abnormally wide. Newt prods the organ gently with his finger, finding it harder than any organ should be. A few more prods reveal that it isn't the organ itself that is hard, but what's inside of it. Something big, abnormally large for a fish this size to eat.

He considers trying to force the fish to regurgitate the object, pushing it up the throat and back out the mouth, but he worries about damaging any of the internal organs if he goes that route. Those razor-sharp teeth mean shoving his hand inside the throat is out of the question, and forceps have the same potential issue to damage the organ internally. In the end, he decides that a swift slice across the length of the stomach will do the least damage and can easily be stitched back up if need be.

Newt presses the scalpel to the tissue and makes a small incision, nudging the folds open. His eye is drawn to a glint of green, the harsh light of the dissection lamp bouncing off the smooth surface of the object. Slicing a bit farther reveals more green, and Newt sucks in a gasp as the realization dawns on him.

"Shit," he says, grabbing the foreceps and slicing clean across the organ, pulling the tissue apart. "Holy shit, you've got to be fucking with me..."

It's a gem, a sparkling emerald hidden inside the fish's stomach. Or maybe it's another stone; he's no geologist, and there are probably half a dozen types of precious gem that are green-colored. How the hell did it even get there? It's edges are cut sharp, hewn by man-made tools some time ago. The bottom is rounded, and the top tapers off to a point, forming a teardrop shape. And it's _huge_. Nearly the size of an egg, if he had to make an estimate.

He shifts in his seat, and the light shifts when he moves, blinding him. For just a moment, Newt is no longer in the lab; he's in some sort of stone chamber, with a central dais, and something sparkling lying on it. And then he's back in the lab, staring at the largest gem he's ever seen, a terrible idea beginning to form in his head.

"It's... uh, it's a stone," he says aloud. "Not sure how it got in this big guy's stomach."

_Come on Newt, say it's a gem,_ his conscience screams. _Document that you found a jewel. This is the university's property, not yours. Don't do something stupid. Don't risk everything._

There's no real point to a gemstone. It's a useless, lifeless thing, formed from minerals that had pressure applied over thousands, or millions of years. They have no real value, only that granted by the collective human instinct to covet the shiny, the pretty, the rare. All that aside, he wants it, god, he _craves_ it. It's the deep, gnawing ache of someone who's spent most of his life on the edge of financial collapse. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Later, when he understands more, he wonders if maybe the stone wanted him just as badly.

Newt gently lifts the gem out of the stomach. Swiveling his chair, he jabs the STOP button on the recorder with his elbow and walks over to the lab sink. He places the gem onto one of the sterilized sample trays, then uses his elbows again to turn the faucets until it runs cool water. He pushes down the dispenser on the sterilizing soap with his forearm, catching a handful, and then, carefully, oh so carefully, picks up the gem and holds it under the running water.

The stone sparkles even brighter as the slime and muck slide off the surface. Newt lathers the soap all over the stone, ignoring the voice in his mind that says he _should_ follow protocol, _should_ bag the stone as is, _should not_ do anything that destroys any possibility of collecting bacterial samples from its surface. There's a louder voice telling him that there's no protocol for a giant fucking gemstone showing up in the stomach of your latest lab sample.

He snags a paper towel and dries the stone, placing it on the counter before snapping his blue gloves off and tossing them into the trash. Cleaned up, Newt can truly appreciate the perfection of the gem’s cut; clean sharp lines, not a chip in sight, and amazingly smooth at the curved bottom. The tip of the teardrop looks as sharp as a shark tooth, and he wonders again what would possess the fish to swallow it.

Newt stares down at the stone, fists balled against his sides, his stomach sick with nausea. Half of him wants to call for Aubrey, show her the stone, start a paper trail, document. The other half argues fiercely that there's no proof right now of the stone's existence, and there never has to be. Fuck, he could just slip it into his pocket, walk out. He could find some black-market dealer and sell it for a fraction of what it's worth. That fraction would still be _millions._

His heart hammers loudly in his ears. The stone stares up at him - no, that's not right. Stones don’t do the staring. Anyway, there isn't a single imperfection, its surface as flat and transparent as the wide sea. He swears if he were to press his finger to the stone, it would vibrate, ripple outwards. Then maybe he could feel a heartbeat underneath, the very same one that pounds in his head and shakes his vision, that calls to him, that impossible voice _in_ his head that is not _from_ his head. The heartbeat pounds and his vision ripples, disturbing the mirror of the stone, where he sees his hand reaching outward, his fingertips stretched to brush the surface...

The moment his finger touches the stone, the sensation of invisible fire shoots up his arm and his vision goes white as it envelops him. He opens his mouth to scream but how do you scream in an emerald prison? His vision goes green, and it’s the green of the stone, he’s falling into it, seeing flashes of a scene he doesn’t understand; people in robes, other stones shaped just like his, raised aloft in their hands, and he is standing in a circle with them, a writhing mass of _something_ in the middle. Another flash: a stone door sliding shut, sea waves spraying his face as he stands in the center of a vast ocean. He is consumed by green fire, the flames flooding his lungs and his capillaries and the dendrites on the ends of his neurons. But it is not death, for he is life and he is creation and he is the opposite of nothing, and he is the beginning and the end of time, even as he falls away into the darkness-

A single word seared into his mind.

_GO._

Then silence.

Newt comes back to consciousness slowly, opening his eyes to find that he’s staring at the legs of his work stool, feeling the cold linoleum against his arms. Someone is shaking his shoulder - Aubrey, leaning over him, saying, "Dr. Geiszler, what happened, are you alright?"

His mind slowly rebounds from whatever reality it had been in previously. He remembers now. The fish, the stomach, the stone. The fire, the heartbeat, the visions.

What the hell just happened?

"I, uh, yeah. I think I'm ok," Newt says, wincing as he presses a hand to his forehead. "No idea what happened. Maybe toxic fumes from the fish stomach? Or a gas leak? I swear to god, I was tasting colors for a second there."

"Should I get medical staff?" she asks, sitting back as Newt sits up. "You need to get checked out."

"No, it's fine. I'm fine, Aubs." He glances around on the floor, but the gem is nowhere to be seen. Probably still up on the counter. Guess that settles it, he thinks. Aubrey had to have seen the gem on her way over. He'll bag and tag it and try to forget what he'd almost done.

Aubrey stands up and holds out a hand to him. "You should get off the floor then. Are you sure you don't want me to call medical?"

Newt reaches a hand out towards hers. He opens his mouth to answer, because other than the dull throb of a headache, he feels just fine, and really, they should be getting back to the dissection.

Then he sees the back of his hand.

"When did you get that?" Aubrey asks, frowning quizzically. "You never mentioned a new tattoo."

The sight renders Newt speechless. This is impossible; he's seeing things, except Aubrey sees it, too, so it can't be a hallucination.

On the back of his hand, inked into his skin - clean and healed, like he's had it for months - is a tattoo of a green, teardrop gemstone.

_~_

Eight hours later, Newt is in his apartment, staring at the back of his hand and trying to decide what to do.

Somehow, he managed not to have a breakdown in the middle of the lab. He'd used Aubrey's concern for his health as an excuse to let her clean up the dissection and shot off a quick email to the department head, telling her that he was taking the rest of the day off so as not to end up fainting a second time. Considering his propensity for obsessing over his research to the point that he was usually kicked out of the building by the overnight cleaning staff, he didn't think she'd have a problem with it.

Instead of heading to a clinic like he'd told Aubrey he'd be doing, he went home. Whatever his body had gone through in the moments when he'd lost reality, it had taken a toll. He'd come in the door and barely made it to the bed, falling asleep immediately and not waking up until around nine.

His stomach was rumbling by this point, so he'd microwaved a frozen burrito and stood over the kitchen sink, letting the crumbs fall into it while he stared down at his hand. It didn't make sense. People don’t just wake up with a brand spankin’ new tattoo. Sure, he drank casually, and occasionally partook when someone was passing a blunt around. But there was no way in _hell_ he'd gotten so drunk or high that he would forget getting a tattoo. With the disappearance of the gem from the lab, he had to face the brutal reality. Somehow, defying every physical law of the universe, the gem had transformed itself and was now a part of him.

_What is this Steven Universe bullshit?_ Newt thinks, tracing the inner cut edge of the stone. It doesn't hurt, and the faint bumps of skin feel normal, like the dozens of other, normal tattoos of marine and surface-dwelling life covering his body. If someone didn't know him, they wouldn't think anything of it. Not that he can _ever_ tell anyone what happened; they'll think he's crazy. Gems don't just... just shove themselves into the human body!

He remembers the voice. The heartbeat. The visions. The command: _Go_.

Where is he supposed to go? All he has to go on is this faint pull in his chest, like a thread being tugged, and when he deigns to follow it, it leads him to the front door. He can't just follow a _feeling_ , Jesus. This is too weird for him, and that's saying something. Far too weird for any normal person to believe.

It hits him then, and he feels like an idiot for not thinking of this earlier. He grabs his wallet and key and leather jacket, throwing his hood up as soon as he gets outside and feels the gentle patter of rain hitting his scalp. His destination isn't far off, only a mile or so. He takes off running, cursing his lack of athleticism.

Twenty minutes later, he leans against the door of _Gottlieb's Curiosities_ and bangs hard, panting and praying Hermann is home. The shop is closed by now, or he'd just go bursting in.

The outside light comes on, and Newt hears footsteps and the familiar tap of a cane. He straightens up as the door opens. Hermann is still dressed the same from this morning, although the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and Newt can see the barest hint of hair -- dark brown -- against a pale chest.

Hermann frowns when he sees Newt, but in confusion, not anger. "Newton? What's going on? What's-"

"I need your help," Newt blurts out, resisting the urge to barge into the building. "You're like, the weirdest fucking person I know- and I mean that as a _compliment_ ," he continues when Hermann's frown turns from confusion to annoyance. "Please, dude. I don't know where else to go."

"Come inside, you bloody maniac," Hermann says, sighing and stepping aside. "Catch your breath and tell me what's going on."

Newt sheds the jacket he's wearing onto the counter when he goes inside; the fabric hood is damp now after a run in the rain. When he turns around, Hermann is staring at him hard, eyes wide, hand gripping the doorknob hard 

"What?" Newt asks. "You've seen my arms before, dude."

"That's not what- tell me what's happened," Hermann implores, shutting the door. To Newt's surprise, he reaches up and clicks the lock shut. The room feels strangely warmer, and Newt wonders if the way Hermann is looking at him – focused, curious, attentive – might account for some of it.

"Ok, so, you're a scientifically-minded guy, right?" Newt asks, trying to start this conversation in a way that doesn’t make him sound like a maniac. "You're not the kind of dude to believe in, like, weird supernatural shit. If it doesn't gel with the building blocks of the universe, it's a lie. Or a delusion. Fuck, what age does schizophrenia tend to manifest? There's no history of it in my family..."

Hermann whacks the handle of his cane against the counter, making Newt jump. "For god's sake, Newton!" he says, eyes wide, shoulder tense with anxiety "Tell me what's going on! You’re positively _brimming_ with magic; what happened?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? Look," Newt says, lifting his hand up and peeling back the Band-Aid he’d used to conceal the teardrop gem. Hermann leans in, squinting at it as Newt continues. "I found this weird fucking gem in something I was dissecting, and the moment I touched it, I felt all this pain and saw some weird fucking hallucinations. Then, when I woke up, the gem was gone, and my hand was like this. So, you tell me, Herms, do _you_ know what happened?"

"I'm not sure," Hermann replies, biting his lip as he traces his index finger over the gem. Newt shivers, because Hermann's hands are always cold, and certainly not because his touch is gentle and long desired. "I have a working theory, but... no, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“What, what?” Newt insists. “Tell me.”

Hermann shakes his head. “It's highly unlikely."

"I'll go with any hypothesis at this point, man," Newt says. "I just wanna know how to get rid of this thing."

"Unfortunately, you might not be able to. For a while, at least." And before Newt can demand an explanation, Hermann holds up a finger to his lips. He quirks his head and glances towards the door. "Do you hear that? Or maybe, feel that?"

"Feel what?" Newt asks, turning to the door. "What am I supposed to be feeling?"

Hermann lets go of Newt's hand and leans towards the windows, squinting through the rain. Now that Newt is really listening, he hears a low thudding noise - far off but coming closer. It sounds like something large and heavy being smashed into the ground. Or walking towards them.

"Something's coming," Newt says, leaning next to Hermann to try and see outside.

"Astute observation," Hermann snarks, and then he grips Newt's elbow and steers him behind the counter, towards the door leading to the stairwell. "Come with me, we haven't much time."

"What's going on? Hermann, what's coming?" Newt asks as they ascend the stairs. A sense of dread curls up his spine; he should be excited that he's _finally_ going to see what Hermann's apartment looks like, but instead his concern is growing by the second, as Hermann does not answer him and simply continues upwards.

The door opens to a kitchenette with a door on each wall. The aesthetic is old, something out of the 90s, but everything looks well cared for; no cracks in the white floor tiles, or stains on the formica counter. The twin of the electric kettle downstairs lives here, with teabags tumbling out of a wooden box beside it. The round table in the center of the room has books and papers piled on it, and oddly, half-used pieces of chalk scattered amongst them.

The thudding outside grows louder. Hermann continues his silent forward march, pulling Newt to the left and into what looks like a cross between a study and a parlor. Dozens of books tower around them in stacks, which really isn't surprising considering Hermann's profession. The couch is red and lumpy, in need of replacement. More chalk litters the coffee table, and there are drawings on the wood floor, white circles and symbols and equations; it doesn’t make any sense for them to be where they are.

"We haven't much time," Hermann says, finally breaking the silence. He lets go of Newt's wrist and starts digging through a stack of books. "Help me. Look for a title called _Omens and Tidings from The Ninth Century_."

"Hermann. What's going on?" Newt folds his arms, not moving, even though the thudding is getting uncomfortably close. He doesn't think he wants to meet whatever is making the noise and vibrations. "The last twelve hours have been nothing but weird shit, and I want some fucking answers."

"Newton..." Hermann sighs when he sees that Newt isn't budging. He turns away from the pile, his free hand outstretched, hesitating, before he puts it on Newt's shoulder. "Do you trust me?"

"I- Can't you just tell me what's going on?"

"I will. I promise. But now isn't the time. We need to work fast if we want a hope of surviving the evening."

Newt swallows, eyes wide at the mention of _survival_. "Yeah. Okay. I'll look for the book."

He searches the stacks, odd titles flashing past his vision: _Mathematical Alignments of Space Time, A Practitioner's Almanac, Developing Your Affinity._ No time to explore what they mean; Hermann has gone off into another room, and Newt scrambles and tears books aside, the thudding getting louder, louder, louder; the knot of fear in his chest is growing larger, larger, larger...

He almost jumps out of his skin when something touches his shoulder, and he snatches the topmost book off the pile and whips around, but of course it's only Hermann.

"Have you found it?" Hermann asks. He's now wearing a puffy, olive green coat over his sweater and slacks. A brown pouch - practically a fanny pack - is hooked to his belt, and a brown leather side bag is slung over his shoulder.

"I- I don't-" Newt stammers, because something about Hermann has changed. He's carrying himself straighter, his brow is set in something like determination, and Newt swears there's an energy coming off of him that wasn't there before, or perhaps Newt just never noticed it.

Hermann's eyes dart to the book in Newt's hands. "Ah, so you have," he says, plucking the book from Newt's grasp. Newt spies the title on its spine as Hermann tucks it into his side bag. That was a convenient coincidence indeed.

"What now?" Newt asks. The teacups on the coffee table, half filled with liquid, are clattering on their saucers. The floor beneath their feet is vibrating with each step of whatever is coming towards them. Coming _for_ them; Newt has no evidence to suggest this, and yet he knows it's true, that something is coming, searching for him, and when it finds him...

"Where do you live, Newton?" Hermann asks, stepping away from him, towards a bit of floor space that isn't covered with chalk. He rests his weight on his good leg and raises his cane forwards, gripping it right below the handle. He does something with his hand, and Newt hears a click, watching with wonder as something thin and white emerges from the bottom of the cane. Hermann lowers the cane a little, until the white bit is touching the wooden floor, and then, in a display of heretofore hidden grace, spins on his good leg, dragging the cane in a wide, circular arc. The white bit - chalk, it's obviously chalk - draws a perfect circle around him.

"What the fuck- why do you have chalk hidden in your goddamn cane, Hermann?" Newt yelps, because nothing makes any fucking sense anymore, and he swears that the thudding has been joined by a low, rumbling growl, and Hermann just spun like a fucking _ballerina_ and he's got the weirdest hidden object that Newt has ever heard of in his cane - why not a sword or a gun or something cool, not _chalk_ \- and now he's scrawling numbers and symbols inside the circle, and when did he draw those straight lines crisscrossed across its breadth?

"Newton," Hermann says, louder, firmer, snapping him out of the terrified spiral his brain had taken. "You said you would trust me. Now tell me where you bloody live."

"Shit- on, on Flamel Street," Newt says.

"Of course, how appropriate. Building number?"

"Fifty-nine."

"Come here," Hermann says, holding out his free hand. "Into the circle, not a bit of you outside it. Understand?"

This can't be happening. Vaguely, Newt can guess at what Hermann is going to do, but that's literally _impossible_ , and a fucking mathematical physicist should know that. Newt should tell him to screw off, except the deafening roar and the crash of glass on the lower floor send him scampering forwards into the circle. He'll take Hermann's seeming dive off the deep end over whatever made those noises.

The circle is wide enough to hold them standing shoulder to shoulder. Newt clutches Hermann's elbow, scared out of his wits and needing something to ground him. Hermann scrawls more numbers, more equations as another roar shrieks from the lower floor, and the building rattles on its foundations.

"Whatever you're going to do, you might want to do it now!" Newt yells over the sound of splintering wood. "I don't want to meet whatever is down there!"

Hermann lifts his cane from the final number with a flourish and holds it above the small circle he's drawn directly in the center of the circle. "You might wish to close your eyes," he says, gently nudging Newt's hand away from his elbow, then clasping it into his own. "The first time can be disorienting for some."

Newt does as he's bid, closing his eyes. He hears the end of the cane tap against the wood as whatever hell spawn downstairs begins to shriek, but it lasts only a moment, suddenly cut off, leaving only the gentle patter of rain. The warmth of the room is replaced by a cool wind in a millisecond. It isn't like someone stepping out a door into the cold -- the chill hitting the front of their body first as the heat around them escapes into the night. It surrounds him all at once, sinking into his skin. The slight shift of a foot tells him that he's no longer standing on wood, but hard ground with a grainy texture, like concrete.

Newt opens his eyes and stares up at his apartment building.

"What the _fuck_ ," he gasps. Impossible, it's all impossible - maybe he lost time, disassociated and just came back. Except, when he yanks his phone out of his pocket, the time reads five minutes after he entered Hermann's shop. He couldn't have gotten over here that quickly.

"Quickly," Hermann says, striding forwards and tugging him along. "We still haven't much time."

Newt, too stupefied to object, follows Hermann up the steps. Wordlessly, he pulls his keys out and opens the front door. He takes the lead, going up a flight to apartment C.

He hadn't planned on having company - he never really does - and so there are clothes scattered about on the couch, dishes piled high in the sink, student papers stacked on the kitchen table. Hermann makes his displeased feelings known with a wrinkle of the nose, a frown, and careful steps over the shoes haphazardly scattered around the door; kicked off and never moved.

"Good lord, do you ever clean?" Hermann asks, turning to face Newt, who stands in the doorway. "Really, if you're that lazy, hire a maid."

"Are you really going to bitch about my hygiene right now? You're the one who said we need to be quick," Newt throws back at him, folding his arms. "Tell me what's going on."

"Just a little longer," Hermann says, shaking his head. "We need to be away from here before we can rest. I left an imprint of your magic in the alchemical circle I drew. That should distract the spirit for a few minutes, but the circle will fade and then you'll be the only beacon left to follow."

"I have no idea what any of that means, dude!" Newt says, throwing up his hands. "Why the fuck are you talking about magic - you're a goddamn physicist! Spirits, alchemical circles, imprints - none of that is real!"

"Newton, I just transported you halfway across the city in the blink of an eye," Hermann says, spreading his hands. "Can you at least entertain the possibility that there are things in this universe you know nothing about? I swear to you, I will explain as soon as I'm able. Now, you have five minutes to bring me whatever clothing, toiletries, and personal items you'd need for a week's journey. If you have any cash hidden about the place, I suggest you bring that too."

"Hermann, I have a _job_. I can't just disappear for a week," Newt says. "I'll get fired."

"You have two options," Hermann says, holding up a hand with one finger raised. "One, you come with me and I will protect you from the mess you've blundered into. Or, two," he continues, raising another finger. "You can stay here and watch your apartment go the way of what just occurred at my shop."

"Shit. _Shit_ ," Newt groans. This isn't fair, he can't make a rational decision when he doesn't have all the answers, but he really, _really_  likes this place, and he'd like to get his deposit back when he moves out. So, he nods, shutting the door behind him. "Fine. I don't think I have a bag big enough for a week's worth of stuff, though."

"I will see to that," Hermann says, nodding. "Bring me what you need, and _only_  what you need."

Luckily, Newt just did laundry the weekend past, so it's easy enough to grab half a dozen t-shirts and pairs of boxers, several pairs of jeans, and a bundle of grey socks - he only buys grey, because he's too lazy to even pretend he gives enough of a shit to match them. He carries them out to the living room and plops them onto the couch.

"Three minutes," Hermann says, opening his satchel and starting to shove Newt's things inside.

"You're gonna carry all my shit in that? It'll never fit," Newt says.

"Don't argue," Hermann replies. "Just bring me more."

Newt runs to the bathroom. There's a little basket on top of his toilet that holds extra toilet paper, and he uses it to carry his toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, hair gel, razor and shampoo out to Hermann. His clothes are nowhere to be seen when he returns, and Hermann takes the basket from him and opens the satchel. Newt watches as the basket goes inside; it should hit the bottom, but Hermann's arm goes lower, lower, lower, until half his shoulder disappears inside, like he's reaching down into a much larger space than should be there. The image of Mary Poppins pulling an entire lamp out of her travel bag springs to mind.

"You think you could fit my guitar in there? Got some room left?" Newt asks sarcastically, because he's seen a lot of impossible things tonight, but maybe the only thing that's really impossible is resisting the urge to be a smart-ass.

Hermann rolls his eyes. "Don't push your luck. I said necessary."

Newt gapes at him. "Music is necessary! I haven't gone on trips without Joan in years."

Hermann fixes him with a level stare. "You named your guitar Joan."

Newt grins. "Yep. She's named after the queen of punk rock herself, Joan Jett."

"We aren't bringing your guitar," Hermann says, straightening up and taking his arm out of the bag. "It'll fair better here than where we're going. Ninety seconds, Newton, hurry."

The distant thud of heavy footsteps outside sends Newt rushing into his bedroom. He snags his phone charger, then glances to the bed. Joan is lying there; he was playing her last night, and he aches to pick her up and demand that she come along for the journey. Instead, he settles for grabbing his favorite pick off the bedside table, threading it back on the chain he always keeps it on and cinching it around his neck.

The thudding has grown louder by the time he returns. Hermann has pushed aside his kitchen table and is drawing another circle with his weird chalk cane contraption on the linoleum. It must be some really great chalk; normal chalk would never stick to the shiny plastic floor.

"That's the last of it," Newt says, tossing him the charger. "Where to next?"

"Same as before, Hermann says, motioning Newt towards him. "One more jump, and then we'll be off, and I can explain, alright?"

"You'd better have a pretty damn good explanation, Herms," Newt snarks, stepping into the circle. "I'm still not completely sure this isn't a fever dream."

"I can assure you, it isn't," Hermann quips, resting a hand on Newt's shoulder. "Ready?"

Newt nods, and this time, he keeps his eyes open, which, upon consideration, was a _terrible_  idea. His brain can't process what he's seeing fast enough; Hermann's cane hits the ground, and just for a second, there's a flash of bright blue light that envelops them. When his vision clears, they're standing on a train platform, right outside the ticket booth. The flash of light and rapid change in scenery disorient him, and he stumbles forward, nausea twisting in his gut at the vertigo. Only Hermann's hand on his shoulder keeps him upright.

"Jesus, I'd toss up my lunch if I had eaten one," Newt says, swallowing back bile. "How the fuck do you get used to that?"

"Practice and a deep desire to keep all the contents of my stomach therein," Hermann replies. "Act naturally, the attendant will see us in a moment."

"Huh?" Newt glances up and sees that they're standing right in front of the ticket booth's window. A young, bored looking woman is tapping on her phone, and when she looks up, it's as if she's looking _through_  them, right until the moment her eyes flick to their faces and she puts the phone down.

"Evenin' folks," she says, affecting a chipper voice that flagrantly mismatches her attitude a moment before. "What'll it be?"

"Two tickets eastbound, please. A sleeper car, if you would" Hermann requests, pulling out his wallet. He glares at Newt when Newt tries to pull his own wallet out, and hands his credit card to the woman before Newt can get any cash out. "I'm paying, Newton. We haven't the time, the next train departs in two minutes."

"I owe you one. More than one, I think," Newt says, grabbing the tickets from the woman when she slides them under the glass. "Okay, lead on."

It's late enough in the evening that the station platform isn't heavily crowded, and the conductor shouts last call for their train line as they approach. “You’re lucky, gents,” he says as he clips their tickets. “The last compartment is the only one open. Any luggage for ya?" he asks, frowning when he sees the singular side bags they each carry.

"Just this, thank you," Hermann says, stepping past him. "Come on then, Newton."

The door behind them closes and the train lurches to life, the whistle shrieking loudly - it almost sounds like whatever was breaking into Hermann's shop, and makes Newt jump in his boots - as they depart from the platform. Hermann moves surprisingly fast for a man with a cane, Newt has found, and he leads them swiftly towards the back of the caboose. He's moving so fast that when he suddenly stops, Newt runs into him, yelping and throwing his hands out to steady himself. Of course, the only thing to grab are Hermann's hips.

"Sorry, sorry," Newt says, letting go as quickly as he grabbed the other man. "Why'd you stop?" He leans sideways to peek over Hermann's shoulder, and adds another tally on the list of impossible things he's seen tonight.

The back door of the train car gives a clear view of the tracks behind them and barreling after the train are... monsters. That's the only word he can use to describe them. _Kaiju_ , his brain - fed on a steady diet of Japanese monster movies and anime - supplies. Two of them, both about the size of a bear. They're a jumble of scales and shells and horns, sharp teeth and long claws, reptilian in nature, galloping on four legs. The oddest thing though - as if this sight wasn't already odd - is that they don't seem to exist. Not in the normal way someone would see a creature or, for that matter, any kind of matter. They glow with a red light - no. They're _made_  of a red light. And Newt can see through them, because the light swirls translucent like smoke, trailing off the edges of their form like a fine mist of red sparks.

And they're gaining ground.

"Hermann," Newt says, gripping his shoulder. "They're gonna catch up to us."

Hermann glances back at him, looking at him curiously. "So, you can see them?"

"Of course, I can fucking see them!" Newt shouts, just about ready to throttle Hermann for being so goddamn mysterious. "How the fuck could I miss them?"

"Most people can't," Hermann says, looking back out the window. "I think we'll be alright, though. I have a theory."

"A theory. A _theory?_  What, that they're gonna get tired of chasing us? Or that suddenly the laws of the universe will right themselves and realize, oh, shit, _that_  can't be real, better fix that."

"No. Just watch."

Newt does watch, but all he sees are those hell monsters getting closer and closer to the train. They're picking up speed as they leave the city and pass into the countryside, but it's not fast enough.

"Hermann," Newt says, his grip tightening on Hermann's shoulder. "Can't you do something?"

Hermann shakes his head. "Just wait."

Wait for what? The Kaiju to overtake them? Fuck that. Newt shakes his shoulder hard. " _Hermann_."

Hermann is immovable, eyes locked on the creatures. "Steady, Newt. A few more moments."

They wait a few more moments as the monsters come closer, closer… until there's no more than a dozen yards between the Kaiju and the train. Still, nothing happens.

Newt is terrified, digging his nails into Hermann’s skin. "Hermann, do something!"

"Just a bit more..." Hermann mutters.

Twenty feet, ten feet, five feet.

"HERMANN!" Newt yells.

An instant later, the creatures vanish. It's as though they've hit a wall, the red light slamming against a barrier and dissipating instantly.

Newt lets the breath that he was holding out, slumping forwards. "Holy shit. _Shit!_  How did you know that was going to happen?"

Hermann shrugs. "I assumed they were spelled to stay inside the perimeter of the city. Once we crossed out of the area, they couldn't follow." He glances where Newt’s hand rests on his shoulder. "Are you going to stay pressed up against me all night or are we going to get into our cabin and talk?"

Hermann does have a point. Newt is a little... close. So, he steps back, folding his arms and scowling. "You've got ten seconds to tell me what the fuck we just went through."

Hermann sighs and pulls out the key for the cabin. "Settle in, Newton. I'm all yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into the action now!
> 
> I think I'll be posting one chapter every Sunday moving forward. Come back next week or hit me up on tumblr or twitter @nighthawkms!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, you know how I just up and disappeared for 2 months and didn't post any more of this? Yeah... sorry guys, life comes at you fast xD Onwards!

The sleeper car Newt and Hermann have rented for the train ride is cozy, with two beds on either side that run almost the full length of the cabin, a small table between them, and two large overhead bins for storage. A button near the door is marked SERVICE CALL. Newt flips the light switch next to it, bathing the cabin in a dim yellow glow. Outside, he can see the shadows of trees and bushes and open fields of the English countryside whipping by.

"Since when does the London to Paris line run sleeper cars?" Newt asks, setting his messenger bag down on the left bed. "This is supposed to be like, what, a three-hour trip?"

"They've been doing construction and repairs on the line for the last several months," Hermann explains, setting his own bag on the right. "The number of evening trains have been reduced and run considerably slower. We'll be in Paris by early morning."

"We're going to Paris? Wait, slow down, back up. Why the fuck are we going anywhere? What were those things? Why did they come after us? And what's this goddamn thing on my hand?" Newt asks, holding it up to show the tattoo, briefly forgotten as they ran for their lives. "No more excuses. Explain." 

Hermann settles on the bed and opens the flap of his bag. "I want to show you something. Watch."

He begins pulling Newt's clothes out. One at a time, T-shirts and dress shirts, boxers, jeans, socks, and toiletries, until there's a pile on the bed that's triple the size of the bag. Then he keeps going, removing his own clothes and settling them on the other side; sweaters and slacks and socks and briefs - of course he's a briefs dude - in a pile as big as Newt's. And then come the books -- half a dozen, then half a dozen more. Other trinkets pile on his lap: a pocket watch, a chalkboard, his laptop. Newt watches him pull things from the bag until the entire bed is covered with stuff, not an inch of room left.

Hermann lies the bag on top of Newt's clothing pile, emphasizing the obvious: there’s no scientific way he should be able to carry that much stuff.

Newt drops onto the edge of his bed, sighing. "Look, I get it. You've got a Bag of Holding. _Dungeons and Dragons_ wants their game mechanic back. You get Hermione Granger in every _Buzzfeed_ quiz you've ever taken. You gonna pull a rabbit out of there next? Look, showing isn't telling, Herms. Tell me how it’s done."

Hermann looks at him for a long moment, then nods and begins toeing off his shoes. "The bag itself is fairly normal on the outside. It's the inside that's been changed,” Hermann explains. “The mathematical underpinnings that dictate the space inside of the bag have been edited to suit my needs."

"Okay, fine. Let's say I believe you," Newt posits. He figures he can go along with this ridiculous thought exercise for the moment. "So, you've figured out some way to rewrite the laws of dimensional space. Cool. Now, how do you explain the teleportation?"

"Simple," Hermann replies. "Our place in temporal space was inside that circle. I simply moved the location of everything in that circle to a new place. More of a cylinder I suppose, since if I were to put no limitations on the height it would hypothetically extend to the edge of the universe. I have a near encyclopedic knowledge of the city, and so can calculate the exact position in dimensional space we needed to jump to."

Newt raises an eyebrow. "On top of that, you managed to account for the fact that this planet is hurting through space at thousands of miles an hour, and each location's position in that space would drastically change in less than a millisecond?"

Hermann smiles, a devilish coyness playing on his lips. "You did call me a genius, Newton. In any case, the jump is instantaneous; no need to account for that minute level of positioning in a short distance teleportation."

"Alright, then what about when we popped up in front of the ticket booth?" Newt asks. "The attendant didn't freak out when we just appeared from nothing."

"Short term illusion. I write them into all my teleportation circles nowadays after a few… unfortunate experiences. It fools anyone within a short radius of my location. To give you the short version, their brains correct the distortion to match the expected reality." Hermann shrugs nonchalantly, like that makes any kind of sense. "It usually takes them a few seconds to catch up afterwards."

"So, all the shit you've been doing, it's just manipulation of mathematical physics?" Newt asks.

Hermann nods. "My magic is based in reality manipulation, but that's because I prefer to adhere as close to factual science as possible. Other mages are not bound by my standards. Plenty of them perform spells and when asked how they did so, simply state that they _just can_ ," he finishes, face scrunched into disgust.

"Magic," Newt repeats. There's no getting around it, then. That was magic. Hermann is a mage. A very scientifically minded mage, but a mage, nonetheless. His conceptual understanding of what's possible must now adjust to the very real evidence of supernatural forces.

_All science relies on the presentation of evidence to back up inductive and deductive reasoning_ , Newt thinks. _And a good scientist adjusts their viewpoint when presented with enough evidence that only one conclusion can be drawn._

"Why didn't you-" Newt begins, but then stops, because it’s obvious why Hermann didn’t tell him. Their friendship doesn't mean that Hermann wouldn't be comfortable revealing this secret to Newt. And can Newt really blame him? Before tonight, if Hermann had said that he could do magic, Newt would've laughed him off, maybe even called him crazy. But now, given the incontrovertible evidence before him? He would be crazy to _not_ believe Hermann.

Hermann's expression grows soft, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Newton," he says. "I didn't wish to deceive you. You must understand the danger I would face if I were to be discovered? These sorts of abilities are ripe for exploitation, and as such, most of us are very secretive and selective about who we inform."

"Apparently I didn't make the list," Newt says, and it hurts in a way it shouldn't.

Hermann looks down, twisting the handle of his cane in his grip. "I was... I was thinking of telling you. I was trying to decide how. This was not the way I would have done it."

“Yeah, well, so much for that,” Newt says, ignoring the hurt for the moment. There are more interesting, pressing questions. "So, there are more of you?" Newt asks. "Mages, I mean?"

Hermann nods, looking back up. "We are not as few or as numerous as you might presume. This is not some sort of Harry Potter scenario, before you get any smart ideas," he says, pointing with a disciplinarian's authority. "No magical castles or wands or selecting hats."

"It's called a Sorting Hat, dude. You're less than a year older than me, how are you this awful at pop culture references?" Newt asks rhetorically, unable to suppress a smile. Hermann meets it with a small one of his own. "Okay. So, I'm not about to get whisked away to Hogwarts. Can you at least give me an overview of the basics?"

"Of course. I can provide a general conceptualization for you," Hermann says. He starts putting clothes back into his side bag as he begins to explain. "As I said, my magic is grounded in scientific fundamentals, or as close as I can get to them. You'll see that I'm not waving my hands and suddenly making fireballs spew forth. That isn't how it works.

"Many, but not all individuals are born with the inherent capacity to create magic," he continues. "I've never been able to figure out whether it's hereditary - if my parents were mages, they certainly never told me about it - or something else. What I do know is that, for all those who are inherently magical, far fewer actually manage to unlock their potential."

"How does it work?" Newt asks, sliding farther up onto the bed, resting his back against the wall. He's still aching from hitting the floor earlier, and he almost wishes he'd listened to Aubrey and gotten checked out for a concussion. "You draw a bunch of chalk circles and you can make them do magical shit?"

"It’s a bit more complex than that," Hermann says. He slides his coat off, lying it next to him on the bed. Newt's never seen him wear it, nor the odd little belt bag that he's yet to open. "When an individual first 'unlocks' their potential, their magic is chaotic, unrefined. If they were to attempt difficult, strenuous spells, they would likely not survive it. You've heard of individuals who've seemingly self-immolated, yes? Likely the result of foolish new mages who've not developed their magic properly."

"Then how do you develop it?" Newt asks. "You said it's unrefined, so, do you have to refine it?"

"Precisely," Hermann says, lips quirking in a fond smile. "I knew you'd catch on quickly. It takes careful practice and honing of your skills, like an athlete training for the Olympics. Much like athletes, who come in all shapes and sizes, each mage refines their magic to focus on a skillset. You wouldn't expect a shot-put thrower to run a marathon, and similarly, you wouldn't expect a mage who practices healing magic to suddenly begin controlling the weather."

"You said your magic is based on manipulation of physical dimensions," Newt says. "If you already love that field of study, it makes sense that your magic is focused there. So, did you just study from the _Big Book of Math Magic_  for a couple years?"

"Mmmmm. Not exactly," Hermann replies. "You see, the mage decides alone how to focus and refine their magic, which means that every single mage has a unique skill set and method of channeling their magic. In practice, I can read a spell book and try to follow the steps indicated therein, but the best magic I can perform is the one I invent, because it is tailored to my own personal style."

"And that's what the chalk is for," Newt says, nodding. Now he gets the odd contraption built into Hermann's cane. It's probably far easier to use his medical aid to sketch things on the ground than bending down to do so. "Huh. You came up with that yourself?" he asks, impressed at the onion-y layers Hermann is hiding beneath those grandfatherly sweaters.

Hermann nods. "That is how I do spell work. The one commonality between all mages is the need for a focal object. Something to channel their magic _through_. In my case, it's the chalk. Others might use things like jewelry, weapons, tools; the possibilities are endless. The only real requirement is that the object have some personal meaning for the user and make practical sense for how they practice spell work. You wouldn't use a broadsword if your magic requires delicate motions, but a rapier might do."

"So, if I pick up some of that chalk and scribble on the wall, nothing's gonna happen," Newt says, a little disappointed. "No chalk monsters exploding out of thin air."

Hermann laughs, shaking his head. "It's just chalk, Newton. Well, I have spelled it to write on whatever surface I like, whether it normally would stick or not. But otherwise, I've given quite a bit of business to Crayola over the years. They keep sending me catalogs for school supplies."

"I'm surprised you haven't succumbed to some horrible chalk-based lung disease," Newt says. "Your hands are always covered in the stuff.” He leans forward as more questions pop into his head. “What else can you do? Like, okay, you use chalk and math to manipulate physics, I get that. But it really doesn't give me a clear sense of your focus."

"Hmmm... well, you've seen the short distance teleportation and temporary visual illusions. The illusions work through the field of magic that the teleportation circles are made of, but I can create other fields for other purposes. For instance, I spelled the shop with a field around the entire structure to block all external magical effects. It's a bubble of sorts; I tend to experiment with new spell work and having a barrier from outside forces is important if another mage happens by while I'm working on a delicate spell. All mages can sense the presence of magic being performed, and other mages around them." Hermann motions to Newt's hand, the green gem tattoo forgotten until just now. "That's why I reacted as I did when you walked in the shop. You've never exuded any aura of ability, and when you passed into the field tonight you were bursting with power."

Newt looks down at the hand. Other than how crisp and healed the lines are for a brand-new bit of ink, there's nothing very magical seeming about the damn thing. Still, in the quiet of the steady train car, he feels a growing malaise. Something is off, is odd inside of him. He just doesn't feel _right_. There’s no question that it has something to do with that mysterious gem.

"I was dissecting this sample earlier," Newt explains, curling his hands over in his lap. "A deep-water fish that we normally don't get to examine. There was this stone inside its belly and it- it just shouldn't have been there, you know? No fish, no matter how lacking in intellect is gonna swallow a giant rock twice the size of its stomach. When I touched it, everything hurt, and I saw... I don't know what I saw," he admits. The visions made no sense, and still don't, even with all the information Hermann's revealed to him. "I think I heard a voice, too? I don't know. But I passed out, and when I woke up, this was on my hand."

"Fascinating," Hermann mutters, picking up one of the books he's left out of the pack. Newt recognizes it as the one Hermann had been searching for, _Omens and Tidings from the Ninth Century_. "You know, there isn't much genuine documentation of magical history from the past. It was probably too dangerous, too easy for a non-mage to stumble upon a title and cry witch. I prefer living in this century, when I wouldn't be burned at the stake for practicing. They did manage a few books, though. Small print batches by private publishers, scholars who've managed to piece together enough to establish a generally accepted timeline of major events." He starts flipping through the pages of the book, his eyes skimming the words as he thumbs at the corners of the paper, searching.

"That's one of your history books?" Newt asks. He squints and strains forwards but can't read anything from this distance. He's too curious and impatient to wait, so he slides off his own bed and moves closer, sitting down next to Hermann, though not close enough to touch. He's never been bold enough to get that close. Hermann merely glances over when Newt sits, then returns to the pages, biting his lip as his eyes slow their rapid scan of the words.

Now that Newt is closer, he can make out the text, but it's all gibberish. The pages aren't printed like a normal book; instead, each page is simply the scanned image of a much older work. Newt can tell by the yellowing page of the picture, the tattered edges and holes in the original book that show up white on the modern paper. The older book is handwritten, with a lot of looping, elongated letters that slant rightwards with the motion of the writer. Surrounding the words are images of all sorts: people dancing, odd symbols, animals and scenes of nature. The flat, simplistic style of the drawings reminds Newt of the medieval religious texts he saw on display when he toured the Vatican as a teenager.

"You can read that?" Newt asks.

Hermann nods, flipping the page. "It's written in Middle English. Not the hardest language to master; not nearly as hard as when I learned the modern version. Someone included a translation later in the text if you'd like to peruse it, but I'm curious about the drawings more so than the words. When I saw that gem on your hand, I swear it reminded me of something from this book... ah!" he says as he flips one more page, and points. In the corner of the text is the drawing of a gemstone that looks so startlingly like his own, Newt swears they were drawn by the same hand.

"Okay, so I guess we definitely know it's got something to do with the ninth century," Newt quips. The rest of the page is a similar level of gibberish as all the others, but Newt can at least examine the other pictures. There's a pale man in a brown cloak holding a circular object in the air on the opposite corner. The object is colored rust, or perhaps gold, and a rainbow-petal flower is embedded in its center. Each petal has a rounded outer end and a pointed inner one. There are six petals of differing color: red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo and violet. The odd thing is that there seems to be room for a seventh color between the yellow and blue, but that spot is blank, as if what should go there has been removed.

It doesn't take a genius to guess what goes there. _They're not exactly shaped like petals_ , Newt thinks, glancing at the stone on his hand. _More like raindrops._

"What is that?" Newt asks, tapping his index finger against the object. "Have you seen that before?"

"Hold on," Hermann replies, nudging Newt's finger away before flipping farther back into the book. He stops on one page, the title of which is _The Sacrificed Seven_. Newt catches the first few words, _I return to the subject of that most great and terrible of events that changed us_ \- and then Hermann twists to face Newt, tucking his leg up and hefting the book against his chest. "Might I have your hand, Newton?"

"That's a little forward, don't you think? Could you at least take me to dinner first?" Newt grins cheekily when Hermann sighs and rolls his eyes. Really, it's Hermann's own fault. Newt's just trying to have a little fun. Most people love his humor; Hermann often seems like it's giving him an ulcer.

"Hand," Hermann repeats, holding his own out. "Now."

"Fine, Jesus," Newt sighs, pretending nonchalance. The idea of Hermann holding his hand has been the subject of a few late nights of chest-tightening, heart racing insomnia. He thrusts his hand out, swallowing when Hermann cups it with his own. Hermann's hands are undeniably chilly, icicles compared to the flush heat Newt feels curling up his spine. But they're gentle as they hold Newt's wrist steady, so Hermann can lean forward and get a better look at the crisp black outlines of the tattoo, the brilliant green ink inside flecked with reflective light.

"You'd never be able to tell it wasn't real," Hermann mutters. He clears his throat. "Bear with me, Newton. _Key, in quibus clausum est?_ "

The words have barely faded when the teardrop tattoo begins to glow brightly. Newt only has a moment to process this before the next shock: it begins to move, turning on its center leftwards, the pointed end wobbling with the barest shift of Newt's hand. No matter which way he turns his hand, the point twists towards the same direction, as if drawn by an unseen force.

"Latin?" Newt asks, keeping his hand still as Hermann drops his to his lap. "Seriously? Isn't that a little cliche?"

Hermann shrugs. "It wasn't my choice. It's the phrasing in the text. You understand what this is, though?"

"A compass," Newt confirms. The gemstone twists like the arrow of one every time he moves, finding that same direction, which looks to be southeast, if Newt's spatial skills are anything to go by. "Where's it pointing to, though?"

Hermann stands up, leaning on his cane. "You said you haven't eaten tonight, yes? There's a diner car, they should still have something available. And for myself, perhaps some gin... I'm going to need a little liquor in me before I go further."

"That bad, huh?" Newt asks. He doesn't get an answer, only a hand motion. Great. More mysterious shit.

Sighing, he gets up and follows Hermann out. A drink doesn't sound like a bad idea after all.

~

There's no one else occupying the diner car this late in the evening, besides a half-awake attendant who obviously didn't expect anyone to request service after nine. Thankfully, they haven't thrown the extra food out yet, so Newt can get a hot meal and feed his growling stomach. The lamps in the car glow dimly. Moonlight pours through the window, lighting Hermann in an ethereal paleness as he sips his drink, leaning back in his chair, saying nothing as Newt shoves an adequate piece of turkey into his mouth.

Hermann casts a calculating gaze in Newt’s direction, regarding him like a puzzle piece he has not quite yet placed. It's a reminder of how wholly this night has changed Newt's perception of the man. Well, maybe not everything; he's still as sarcastic and emotionally distant as he ever was. Beyond that, there's a cunning and confidence that Newt's never seen before tonight. He took charge as soon as he saw Newt was in distress. Within seconds of hearing the approaching threat, he had put together an escape plan and executed it perfectly. Newt wonders if he’s had to get out of similar sticky situations in the past.

Earlier tonight, Newt hadn't given more than a token protest when Hermann asked Newt to trust him. The answer was always going to be yes. Their friendship might be odd to an outsider looking in; sure, Hermann’s a quiet recluse, and Newt rarely gets him out of the shop for anything other than dinner at the local pub. They've never been to one another's homes before tonight, they've never given one another holiday gifts, or gone to see a movie. They don’t follow each other on social media, or chat on the phone, and any occasional text Newt sends him is usually given a one-word answer. But they didn’t need any of that.

Instead of movies or text messages, they have the shop, whose biology section has grown from three shelves to two entire rows. Newt's favorite cushy chair has moved from the back of the shop to right beside Hermann's shop counter. Hermann’s tea kettle has gained the company of a pour-over coffee pot with little fanfare. At times, Hermann will peer over his shoulder, making some smart or sarcastic comment about the long-outdated knowledge in the book he is reading. They have long discussions into the late evening, far past when the shop closes, when it’s just the two of them and their lowered voices punctuated by the tick of the clock, the hum of Hermann's laptop, the occasional sound of a car driving by. They have _Good afternoon, Newton_  and the smiles that come more and more frequently, the feeling that some protective shell around Hermann has begun to form cracks. They have the scarf that Newt's uncle sent him, unbearably hot for his warm nature, and the way it perfectly wraps around Hermann's neck and brings color to his cheeks, a permanent fixture of his winter wear. They have twice weekly cups of tea from the cafe, pressed into grateful hands, and a refusal to ever be paid back.

No one’s ever gotten him quite like Hermann does. So, Newt trusts him, without question.

Hermann is still staring at him. "Find what you're searching for?" Newt asks, swallowing a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Yes," Hermann says, taking a large gulp of gin right after. He sets the glass down and leans towards Newt on his elbows. Newt glances back and sees the attendant typing on his phone. Hermann had told him they'd call him if need be, probably to give them the space to speak.

"So, where does this compass want us to go?" Newt asks, resting his hand on the table. The pointer jiggles with the motions of the train. Newt had hidden his hand in his jeans pockets when they'd walked into the dining car, but if it's going to stay like this, he's going to need to get some sort of glove or wrapping to avoid questions.

"I'm not entirely sure, but I believe that's the point of it," Hermann replies. He's taken the book with him to the car, and now he opens it to the old page with the drawing of the gem. "I don't think it's just a compass. I think it's leading us to its lock. It's a key."

"A key?" Newt asks, frowning. "To what?"

Hermann points to the circular object being held by the hooded man. "That. Rather, I believe it serves as a key to this thing’s location."

"So, what's that? It's gotta be important if somebody hid the key at the bottom of the ocean," Newt says.

"Yes. As far as I can gather, it's an amplifier. A very powerful one - the most powerful, if this fanciful legend is to be believed."

"Okay, you're gonna have to rewind and explain. An amplifier?"

Hermann nods. "It's a magical object that can substitute for a mage's focal object, and it does exactly as the name implies. It amplifies the user's power. From what I’ve ascertained, they're quite rare, because they require a mage to sacrifice their own magical ability to create, and no sane mage would want to do that without a good reason. Most mages who've tried to rip their magic out to create one have died in the process."

"Yeah, what'd be the point? You give up your magic and then you can't even use the thing."

"No, but someone else can. Again, that's why they're usually only made in times of desperation. For instance, if two mages were facing almost certain death, one might sacrifice their power so that the other one could amplify theirs. But this amplifier is quite special," Hermann continues, pointing to the colored teardrops that make up the center. "No one believes it actually exists. It's supposed to be a myth; the amplifier of 'The Sacrificed Seven.'" He scrunches his nose, shaking his head. "Just an old legend for greedy mages who wished such an item existed."

"You wanna fill a guy in on this too-good-to-be-true legend?" Newt snarks. He's picked up most of what Hermann has put down at this point, but his head is still spinning with all the talk of mages and math magic. Now they're getting into the folk tale realm, and Newt's suspension of disbelief rarely stretches to those on a good day.

"This account was written in the fifteenth century," Hermann explains. "I'll summarize to avoid boring you. Supposedly, sometime back in the 800s, there was some sort of magical event or apocalyptic scenario that threatened to wipe out all life. Eight mages of significant skill stepped forward to stop this event, and seven of them - for context, seven is seen as a 'power number' by a great many mages - sacrificed their magic to create this amplifier. It was given to the eighth, who used it to prevent this apocalypse. Now, the running theory about all amplifiers is that they are a crystalized form of pure magic, and so they can never be destroyed. I've never seen one, so I can't confirm that. Anyway, these mages, knowing that the amplifier would be dangerous for any single mage to possess, hid it away somewhere."

"So, is this thing pointing to where it's located?" Newt asks, tapping on the gem.

"It’s very likely," Hermann confirms. "It's also the key to unlock the hiding place, if the translations and my own half-fluent reading of the original are to be believed. I've no idea why it went into your hand - that wasn't mentioned in the legend. For God's sake, this isn't even supposed to exist! I just- when I saw it, I knew immediately what it was. I've read this book so many times, and that image is buried in my mind."

"Then did those weird mist kaiju want to take it from me?" Newt asks, motioning back towards the train caboose when Hermann frowns. "You know, kaiju. Those weird movie monster things that were chasing the train. Come on dude, have you never seen the original Godzilla? We need to fix that immediately."

"Whatever you'd like to call them, I don't believe they wanted your gem. Rather, whomever sent them did."

"How did they even know how to find me? I didn't tell anyone I found the fucking thing!"

"You wouldn't have to, Newton. That gem is brimming with an insane amount of magic; purely condensed into that form, every mage in a five-kilometer radius can sense it. The only reason I didn't was because I was in my shop the whole day, and as I've told you, it's spelled to keep external magic outside."

"So, mages know something powerful just showed up in London proper," Newt says, sighing. Great to know he's now a walking power beacon. "And it's stuck in my hand."

"The problem is that the rarity of amplifiers means that when a new one is sensed, someone might try to come claim it. That's why we ran. I didn't know what was coming for you, but I knew they wouldn't particularly care if you got hurt in the process of their taking the amplifier." Hermann sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Honest to god, Newton, I don't even know how to get it out of you."

"Then what do we do?" Newt asks, glancing back again. The car attendant hasn’t stopped typing on his phone, and it's probably nothing, but Newt's newfound paranoia has his mind screaming that the guy is posting to some UK mage message board about where their location is. _Stop it_ , he thinks. _Hermann's gonna keep you safe_.

Can he keep Newt safe from every single mage out there, though?

Hermann unsnaps the flap of his belt pouch and draws out a piece of chalk. Newt catches sight of the dozens of other pieces inside as he closes it. That makes sense. Hermann would always want to keep as much as possible with him. He holds Newt's hand still on the table and starts drawing a circle around the gem tattoo, the chalk line leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. He wonders if the chalk has reacted with the gem as he watches as Hermann traces the outline with the chalk, then writes a string of numbers and symbols underneath the tattoo. When he lifts the chalk up on the last number, the chalk glows blue for just a moment, and then vanishes entirely. Newt swears his entire body just got about twenty degrees warmer.

"What did you do?" Newt asks. He’s glad he’s wearing only a t-shirt, or he'd be sweating right now.

"I told you about the shield around my shop. I've reversed the design; now it's keeping the gem's magic inside the shield, inside your body. It might leak out a bit, but if any mages are around, they should only think you're exuding the normal amount of magic that any other mage would." Hermann sits back, expression far calmer as he drops the chalk back into the pouch. "That should protect you for the time being. Unfortunately, this train only has one real destination, so the one who sent those... kaiju, as you called them, probably knows where we're headed, at least for now. Hopefully we'll beat them to Paris."

"Okay, let's say we do," Newt says, grabbing the blessedly cool glass of water. He takes a large gulp and wipes his mouth. "Let's say we get there, and we aren't greeted by a welcome party of monsters that wanna eat my face off. Where do we go then? If everybody wants this stupid thing, where _can_  we go?"

"There's only one possible destination," Hermann says, sighing. "We need to follow that compass. We need to find the amplifier. That gem in your hand serves as part of the whole that was broken off. Maybe if we find it, it'll leave you and return to the amplifier."

"So, we're just gonna follow this magical fucking compass tattoo across Europe until we stumble on whatever it’s pointing to?" Newt hisses, biting back the frustration in his voice, lest he alert the attendant. " _Then_  what, Hermann? Are you gonna take the damn thing?"

"I could," Hermann says. His hands twitch where they rest on the tablecloth, and his gaze goes distant. "If I had that amplifier, I could go anywhere in the bloody world in the blink of an eye. As I said, I've a photographic memory of the city, but now that we're outside of it, it will be harder for me to calculate distances correctly. With something that powerful, I could rewrite the laws of physics themselves if I wanted, Newton." He meets Newt's gaze again, his eyes warm and reassuring. "But I won’t. No one should have that kind of power. Not to worry, I'm sure I’ll think of a way to get rid of it when the time comes.”

"Easy for you to be confident," Newt grumbles, folding his arms. "I didn't even know mages existed until three hours ago. No more secrets, Hermann, not anymore."

"I told you, I wanted to-"

"I know, okay? I'm not mad, not anymore. You gotta understand, though. You're telling me to up and disappear from my job and my life for God knows how long because of something I just found out about. I wanna keep trusting you, dude, so I need the policy to be honesty from now on."

"The continent isn't _that_  large," Hermann sighs. "But I see your point. Alright, no more secrets, not on the matter of magic, in any case."

Right. They'd gotten into a fight this morning over a secret a hell of a lot smaller than this one. Apparently, Hermann's not gonna budge on explaining that one.

With a full belly and drooping eyes, Newt stumbles back to the cabin after Hermann, dropping onto the bed. He can't believe how tired he is after that long afternoon nap, and he's been unbearably warm since Hermann had drawn that spell on his hand. These two facts lead to him stripping down to just his boxers and collapsing on top of the sheets.

Hermann clears his throat. Newt opens his bleary eyes to see the other man frowning at him from across the cabin.

"You're going to sleep like that?" he asks.

"I'm hot," Newt explains, closing his eyes again.

"You should at least get under a sheet."

"What are you, my dad? You’re lucky I’m bothering with underwear, I usually don’t."

“How _generous_ of you.” There’s silence for a moment. Then: "What's that? Around your neck?"

"Hmm? Oh. It's... nothing," Newt says, flipping over, facing the wall. If Hermann's gonna be stubborn and keep secrets, Newt can have a few of his own. He wiggles under the covers to keep Hermann from nagging him anymore. "Good night."

"Sleep well," Hermann murmurs as Newt drifts off. He won't know that Hermann stays up another few hours, watching the sheets slide off as Newt shifts and rolls over, the moonlight casting light on his chest rising and falling evenly. He can't hear the worried, frustrated thoughts running through Hermann's mind; can't feel Hermann's anger at being unable to do anything else for his friend, or the fear of what will happen if they fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are probably going to be irregular but we'll see what happens ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try to update this weekly or bi-weekly. It's a biggun folks, strap in!
> 
> Like what you read? Follow me on tumblr and twitter @nighthawkms!


End file.
